“From Alfonso,” she said, even as Pantalisea, seated nearby, looked up sharply. My woman had grown even more protective of me in the wake of our visit to Cesare. “He waits for your reply.”
“Since when have married ladies replied to correspondence from a man who is not their father or husband?” demanded Pantalisea, bringing a glower to Sancia’s face.
“And since when have maidservants reproved their betters?” she retorted.
“Yes, since when?” I said, staring in excitement at the letter. I motioned Pantalisea out before she could protest, then turned to the window to crack open the seal.
Alfonso’s handwriting covered the page, the practiced script of a man as well versed in penmanship as he was in literature:
Donna,
I write this wishing that I were with you. I have not yet reached my beloved city but have already been warned it is overrun by mercenaries abandoned by the French. Therefore, I am charged upon my arrival with assembling the forces needed to expel this vermin from our domain.
Despite this responsibility, I think of you every hour of every day. At night when I close my eyes, I see your face and relive our all-too-brief time in the library. You may deem me a fool for revealing the simple workings of my heart, which is untutored in courtly arts, but the memory of you sustains me, bella signora mia, as does the hope that one day we may meet again.
His letter was unsigned, in case it should fall astray on its way to me. Still, I heard his voice in his words and was amazed that this prince I barely knew could nurture such sentiments for me. I too had felt the magnetic charge between us; I also remembered the idyllic hour we’d spent, lost in our own world, but it had faded into the past, in the turmoil of my encounter with Cesare and with Giovanni’s return. Now his letter brought it back to me. Never had I received a missive like this, so heartfelt and candid. After I read it one more time, I turned back to Sancia.
“I must think carefully on my reply.”
“Do not think too long,” she warned. “He may perish of misery if you do.”
But I had no time to compose my response, for soon after, preparations for Juan’s arrival overtook us. For weeks through the summer heat, Papa’s every waking hour, and thousands of ducats, were lavished on the upcoming reception. Even the cobblestones in St. Peter’s Piazza were cleansed of grime, the vagrants and beggars put into jails so they’d not soil the gilded archways built over the road down which Juan would ride.
And as August’s pitiless sun poured upon us, baking us in our finery, we gathered on the velvet-bunted dais to witness my brother’s return from Spain.
Trumpets sounded in the distance. Looking across the dais from the cushions where Sancia and I sat, I tried to catch Cesare’s eye. It was the first time I’d seen him since that day in his palazzo, as well as his first official appearance. I was relieved to find he did not appear visibly sick. He was still too pale, with shadows under his eyes, but he stood tall, elegant in his scarlet robes, his skullcap fitted to his shorn head and his hands bare of adornment, folded before the wide sash at his waist.
“He is coming,” I heard Papa’s delighted whisper, and I watched in disbelief as he turned to Cesare. “I can hear the cheering. Our beloved Juan is home!”
My sudden impulse to rise from my cushions and harangue Papa dismayed me. All my life, I’d worshipped the ground he trod upon. Yet his disregard for the sense of degradation that must course under Cesare’s polished façade made me want to yell for all Rome to hear that Pope Alexander VI had more than one son, and if he failed to show them equal favor, he risked condemning us all to—
A roar of acclaim brought my attention to the procession entering the piazza. A multitude of grooms in our livery surrounded Juan, who sat astride a stallion caparisoned in cloth-of-gold edged with jangling bells, his scarlet cap and sienna-brown velvet doublet so encrusted with gems, he blazed like the very sun. An incongruous entourage of turbaned Moors, somersaulting jesters, and dwarves in matching velvet swirled about him. Close behind him rode Giovanni, who’d gone to the Porta Portese as part of the welcoming reception, arrayed in finery paid for, as usual, by us.
Then I caught sight of Giovanni’s expression. I had never seen such joy on his face; he seemed transformed, lightened somehow, even moderately handsome, as though Juan’s return had infused him with new life. I stared, unable to believe my eyes, recalling with revulsion his liaison in my palazzo with Juan and Giulia, not feeling Sancia’s pinch on my arm until she hissed, “Lucrezia, you must rise. His Holiness is on his feet!” I stood, tugging at my own magnificent, if slightly crumpled, violet and silver camora, which clung, sweat-dampened, to my body.
Papa hurtled to the edge of the dais. “My son! Juan, hijo mío!” he cried. The crowds, always moved by his paternal abandon, went wild, their cries of “Gandia! Gandia!” thundering throughout the piazza until I thought the echo might shatter the fragile statues of the basilica.
Juan leapt from his horse. The singsong jingle about him grew louder as he mounted the dais to where Papa waited. Sancia said in my ear, “God save us, does he wear bells on his clothes, too?” and I had to curb my giggle as I heard the tiny silver bells chiming on his Moorish-style mantle, which he removed in a dramatic gesture and tossed in a clanging heap behind him.
The crowds let out a roar of laughter. Quite unwittingly, Juan had reduced his triumphant arrival to a comedy.
I shot another look at Cesare. He stood immobile beside the empty papal throne, the angular line of his profile revealing nothing.
But as Papa engulfed Juan in his embrace and the cardinals applauded, as the people tossed flowers in the air and cannon fire exploded from the castel, I saw an icy smile unfurl over Cesare’s lips.
“The campaign is a disaster.”
Hearing Cesare’s voice, I came to a halt before the half-open door to my father’s private chamber. Outside, a tempest hammered against the palace, spitting hail and rattling the casements.
I’d decided to pay an impromptu visit to Papa, as he’d been occupied in the weeks leading to the Epiphany festivities. In September, he had seen Juan, newly titled as gonfalonier, march from Rome at the head of our army. I’d barely seen my brother at all; up until the hour of his departure, he’d been sequestered in daily meetings with Papa, Cesare, and their councillors, but I’d heard of no altercations between him and Cesare. Following Christmas, the entire papal court fell into torpor. The Curia took its recess, the cardinals retiring to their palazzos; Papa too should have been enjoying a long-deserved respite, but after several requests for an audience that he failed to answer, I finally took the hidden passage from Santa Maria into the Vatican.
And now I found myself unable to announce my presence. Motioning away the stone-faced guards standing vigil in the corridor, I pressed my eyes closer to the ajar door. In the chamber beyond, I saw Cesare beside a table heaped with what looked like maps and other papers. Papa sat brooding in his large chair, his grizzled chin on his fist. I knew I should announce myself but instead found myself staying hidden by the door, curious to discover why they seemed so intent.
“Don’t you think it’s premature for these dire predictions?” my father grumbled. “The war is not over yet.”
“It might as well be,” said Cesare, without a hint of remonstration despite his frown. “No one believes we have any other option than to seek accord with the Orsini and their allies.”
“Accord?” exclaimed Papa. “I’d rather pawn my own throne. Your brother may not have excelled thus far, but he has managed to capture twelve of the Orsini fortresses, including Scrofano and Formello. Is that not enough for you?”
I held my breath, awaiting Cesare’s reply. I remembered his words to me on that horrible night, about the devil inside him, and his icy smile when Juan arrived. While I knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, I was riveted by the scene before me, for it was the first time I’d found my brother and father alone together, discussing matters not meant for anyone’s ears but theirs.
“We both know Juan did not take the fortresses,” Cesare said at length. “He may claim thus in his official dispatches, but in reality, it was his first commander, my lord of Urbino, who oversaw those sieges. Unfortunately, Urbino was also wounded during the last one and had to retire from the field, leaving Juan to assume the capture of the main Orsini fortress at Bracciano.”
Papa groused, “Yes, yes. We know all that,” making me wish I’d paid more attention to Juan’s campaign instead of letting myself be distracted by Sancia’s constant urging to write my delayed response to Alfonso. I heard a decanter clink; Papa’s favored attendant, Perotto, walked past my view to refill my father’s goblet. The sight of the handsome chamberlain reassured me; evidently this discussion was not so secret that Perotto couldn’t be present.
Cesare was quiet.
“Well?” our father barked, but I discerned a distinct lack of aggression in his tone, as though he tried to rouse an impatience he did not feel.
“Well,” said Cesare. I heard papers rustle. “It says here that while Urbino convalesced, Juan made a mess of his charge. The storms turned the ground to mud, so he couldn’t employ our cavalry to approach; he also gravely underestimated Donna Bartolomea, wife of Virginio Orsini, who holds Bracciano in the family name and refused Juan’s order to surrender. Her obstinacy and the weather kept our army at bay. Then she sent a donkey into Juan’s encampment with a message shoved up its tail. Do you want to hear what it said?” My brother paused.
Papa said, “Do I have a choice?”
Cesare’s voice was so modulated, so controlled, that only someone who knew him very well would have detected its scathing undertone. “The message was, and I quote, Let me pass, as I am envoy to the duke of Gandia.”
I stifled my laughter as Papa spat, “That Orsini bitch will rue the hour she dares mock us.”
“Perhaps,” replied Cesare, “but for now I fear it is we who must rue, because after she mocked Juan, there was nothing he could do. Word of her defiance spread throughout the ranks, and our men lost faith in him. While Juan harangued them to some semblance of order, reinforcements from the Romagna barons arrived to defend Donna Bartolomea; they chased our entire army into Soriano, where we’ve been defeated. This latest dispatch is from Urbino himself. He writes that he tried to fight, even while injured, but was captured. He requests payment of his ransom, as is the custom. Juan, it seems, also suffered a wound to his face. Once he’s recovered enough to take horse, he requests your leave to return here.”
“Impossible!” I saw Papa lumber up from his chair and stride right in front of me, immobile at the door, to snatch the letter from Cesare. As he read, fury darkened his voice. “It cannot be. Juan must not abandon the field. We’ve not yet struck our blow against the Orsini. If he retreats, all will indeed be lost. I’ll be forced to sue for peace. We’ll be ridiculed before all of Italy.”
It was the hour Cesare had long awaited, confirmation from our own father of Juan’s incompetence. Yet Cesare only sighed. “The war is over. Juan is incapacitated and his commander a captive of the enemy. We must swallow our pride, offer the Orsini a truce and negotiate the return of their fortresses before the entire Romagna rises up against us. After what those barons did when the French invaded, we cannot afford to go further in this enterprise. Perhaps later,” Cesare added, “once Juan has fully recovered, we can try again. If they are given back their castles and coin to satisfy their losses, the Orsini can be placated.”
I was surprised by my brother’s magnanimous words but not by our father’s reaction. He flung aside his goblet. It struck the far wall with a metallic clatter. In the silence, I clearly heard my father panting. Then he said, “We always have the matter with Lucrezia.”
I froze. Cesare did not respond for a long moment. “We do,” he finally said, “but I think we should delay. The conversation I had with Giovanni was not edifying. He refuses to consider any annulment of their marriage on the grounds of—”
A sudden grip on my arm swung me about. Before I could gasp, Sancia pressed her other hand to my lips. “Hush,” she mouthed, and she hauled me away into the corridor.
I pulled from her, irate and embarrassed to be caught outside my father’s door. Sancia murmured, “I regret the interruption, knowing how much we can learn from eavesdropping. But your husband is in a rage. You should come at once before he tears your palazzo apart.”
—
SHOUTS AND THE crash of something overturning in the antechamber—a table with my majolica decanter or a sideboard of platters—greeted me as I hastened up the staircase to my apartments. I heard Pantalisea cry, “Signore, per favore! My lady went to see His Holiness. I must insist that—”
“Get out of my way,” Giovanni yelled.
Sancia reached into her cloak, pulling out a small dagger. Her face turned grim. I tasted the brine of fear in my throat as we stepped over the threshold. The antechamber was in shambles, overturned chairs and shards of broken porcelain littering the carpets. My women cowered by my bedchamber door. Giovanni was moving toward them; as he heard Sancia and me walk in, he whirled about, swaying, his eyes narrowed with wine-soaked fury.
“I have the right,” he slurred, jabbing his finger at me. “I have the right, damn you!”
An abrupt, cold calm pervaded me. “I am afraid I have no idea to what you refer, nor do I understand the reason for this unseemly display, Signore.”
“You should be afraid.” He took a staggering step toward me. “Because I have the right, not your conniving demon of a brother or that boar you call a father. You are my wife. Mine! No one can say otherwise. No one can dare say that I am not a man.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sancia unsheathe her blade and palm it. I prayed she would exercise restraint. Despite his threats, Giovanni was far too flown with wine to do much harm. “You are drunk, Signore,” I said. “We can speak again when you are sober.”
He blinked, as if perplexed by my glacial tone. Then he growled, “You think I lack for counsel in this cesspit? You Borgias aren’t the only ones with paid eyes and ears; I too have those who spy for me, and I well know what you and your father plan.”
“I do not doubt it. Nevertheless, I have no interest in what your spies say.”
Pantalisea stepped behind him. “Signore, my lady does not wish to see you—”
Giovanni threw out his arm, striking her across her face. The impact sent her reeling into the other women, who cried out as she tumbled against them, blood spurting from her nose.
“Bruto!” Sancia lunged at him. “You think you are so brave, eh, beating on a woman?” She brandished her dagger. “Let us see how brave you are when I cut off your balls.”
Giovanni sneered. “The other Borgia slut is here. Excellent. I will fuck you both, just as Cesare and His Holiness have done before me.”
Before Sancia could raise her dagger to him, my hand shot out, detaining her. Stepping past her, I said, “You will leave at once. If you do not, if you ever dare utter such filth again to me or anyone else, I will tell my father and the entire world what you are. Everyone will learn of how you can only bed a woman if my brother Juan takes you from behind like a Turk.”
He gaped at me.
“Yes,” I continued as his bloodshot eyes widened in horror. “I was there. I saw everything. I used it to destroy Giulia Farnese. I will do the same to you, if you give me cause.”
His voice seemed to choke him. “It’s…not possible. I did not—you could not…”
I smiled. “Oh, but I could. I did. Have you forgotten there was a hole in the door? Djem was there; he showed it all to me. And although he is dead, Signore, I am not.”
He did not move. He did not speak. I felt our mutual hatred, our loathing for each other, cresting before he whispered, “You will regret this.”
“I do not think I will regret anything where our marriage is concerned,” I said, recalling what I had just overheard in Papa’s chamber. He may have refused Cesare’s request
to concede an annulment, but if I threatened to reveal his sordid secret, he’d be in no position to refuse again.
His hands bunched; I glanced at them. “Harm me,” I added, “and I shall ask His Holiness to have you plead more than non-consummation of our vows.”
With a strangled sound, he lurched about, shouldering past my women to trudge out the door. Only then did I feel my resolve weaken, as I turned to Sancia. “He will never forgive me.”
“If what you told him is true,” she replied, “you do not need his forgiveness. Giovanni Sforza may be a drunken fool, but even fools know when to submit.”
WINTER EBBED. SPRING tiptoed in, bringing larks and buds to the trees in time for Holy Week. On the morning of Good Friday, Giovanni arrived unexpectedly at my door. I had not seen him since our confrontation months before, and I barely acknowledged him now as he stood in my antechamber with his cap in his fist, dressed in a somber tunic, boots, and cloak.
“I am going to the Church of Sant’Onofrio in honor of our Savior’s martyrdom.” He paused, awaiting my response. I thought he looked haggard; if I’d cared anything for him, I would have told him as much and suggested he consider the state of his immortal soul on a daily basis, not just on sacred ones like today.
Instead, I refused to look up from where I sat with my women. Having finished my morning prayers, I was passing the time embroidering. “That is good,” I said, wondering why he felt the need to announce his intentions, when he never had before. “I wish you a good day.”
“You should come with me. You are my wife.”
With a pointed glance at Pantalisea, whom he had struck, her bruise taking days to fade, I replied, “I will attend Mass this afternoon with His Holiness as scheduled. You are welcome to join us,” I added, “as my husband.”
The Vatican Princess Page 24